


Rules of Unity

by Rinna



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comedy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:10:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinna/pseuds/Rinna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't really understand how a man who calls himself a sociopath is suddenly making elaborate plans for attending his university reunion. Plans that for some reason include wearing expensive clothing and sleeping at a hotel even when you only live fifteen minutes away. And him. Always him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules of Unity

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This was posted for a Sherlock challenge on livejournal as far back as good old 2010, but I am an Ao3er now! I like it here! Okay, uh... proceed.

Somewhere in the flat, a phone rang.

Over the last few months it had become increasingly difficult for John to find out which phone rang. Sherlock had quickly taken possession of Harry's old phone and changed the ringtone, an exact copy of what he had as his own, and their contacts had reacted to the new situation - calling John's phone first.

And whilst John's phone had found a new home in Sherlock's jacket, trouser pockets or under his pillow, Sherlock's phone (bless the poor abandoned piece of perfectly well working technology) probably lay in the fridge next to the severed head, waiting to die.

Having retrieved his own phone from under Sherlock's head on the sofa earlier to read his texts, John knew it was not the one ringing; Sherlock was asleep and would have complained loudly by now.  
John frantically lifted bits of newspaper, books and plates in search of the phone. He cursed himself for not pressing Sherlock more vehemently to simply cancel his contract, when the only reason he hadn't was that doing so required leaving the house and talking to people.

He finally found it under the dresser, along with a pair of socks that he had stopped looking for about two weeks ago.  
Making a hasty retreat from the socks (deciding to get them later, possibly with a set of sterilized pincers) John grabbed the persistently ringing device and answered it.

"Hello?"

"Oh, h-hi John. You were just the one I wanted to speak to."

Judging by Molly's voice that was a lie, but it wasn't a particularly bothersome one, so John let it slide.

"Sorry, I only have Sherlock's number."

John was surprised she had it at all and assumed she had just saved it after Sherlock had called to pester her for something.

"Hi Molly," John said, glancing at Sherlock's unmoving frame on the sofa, "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I was wondering if you could come to St. Bart's... there’s something I’d like to discuss with you."

John raised his eyebrows at that, but didn't ask any further. The whole situation was unusual enough that he instinctively felt asking would not get him far, not with Molly breathing hard into the phone, jittery with nerves.

"Yeah, okay. Sure. Do you want me to bring Sherlock?"

Molly hesitated. Of course she did. John could hear her chew on her bottom lip, an unpleasant sound. Then:

"No. No, there is really no reason to bring Sherlock along." She sounded almost defiant.

"Okay." John gave her a few seconds to change her mind. When she didn't and said she would see him in a bit instead, he really hoped she didn't want to have some kind of private chat with him involved dating strategies and what men really thought of women, the kind that required all of Sherlock’s acting skills, patting the other person's hand with a grave nod that was as fake as his sympathy.

"You know that even if you had asked me to I wouldn't have come along?" Sherlock remarked to John as he hung up, his body on the sofa turned away entirely.

"Of course you would have, you curious bastard." John gave back lightly, and Sherlock huffed half in irritation and half in amusement.

"We're out of sugar, go get some on your way back."

**

Molly was a really nice person, and every time John saw her he pitied her for falling for the entirely wrong type of guy and for (probably) being born spectacularly awkward.  
He made it a point not to look directly into her eyes.

Knowing that he only took the bus for a few stops and then walked when Sherlock wasn't around, she made him coffee straight away to chase away the cold that had dug far into his bones even on the rather short walk, and John accepted it gratefully.

"So tell me, why am I here?" he asked her, trying not to sound anxious. Molly wasn't Sherlock, but being mysterious wasn't something he associated with her either.

"Oh well, the thing is that... I could use some help down here. Possibly for longer. Few too many violent deaths these days," Molly said and made the face of someone who was sure he had made a fantastically witty joke.  
When John couldn't quite muster a grin, she hurried to continue.

"It's a job offer of sorts. I know it's not strictly what you’ve been trained to do, but I was told I could look for a candidate myself and since I know you and Sherlock are in a bit of money trouble..."

John grit his teeth at that, and with how she flinched he knew Molly had noticed it, too. He would get Sherlock to cash in his cheques soon. He would. That and all future cheques would go in his name.

"Anyway, you could be my assistant!"

Whatever flashed in John's eyes at that comment made Molly retreat further.

"I'll think about it," he said, a bit more coolly than originally intended.

**

When John closed to the door to 221b Baker Street and walked up the stairs to their flat, a grocery bag dangling from his left wrist, he stepped on something.

While stepping on various things was a regular occurrence within the flat, John would never have expected Mrs. Hudson to fail in her meticulous cleaning efforts here, where there wasn't someone to oppose her verbally or shoo her away.  
John withdrew his foot and found a letter.

They didn't get letters.

It was a plain fact that neither Sherlock nor John had any acquaintances who would bother to write to them, unless Sherlock had family he had never bothered to mention. It couldn't have been a bill either, as Mrs. Hudson usually collected them, marking all the numbers with bright red felt-tip before she took them upstairs.

Curiosity now got the best of John, and he set the bag down to inspect the letter in the middle of the hallway, knowing he would never get a chance to do so once Sherlock got involved.  
It felt like a mini-deduction to him, inspecting the manila envelope that smelled of fresh printing ink.  
John was naturally suspicious of letters that came without a hand-written address, especially when they looked too expensive to be advertising. It was okay to open it this once, he thought, after all Sherlock knew his bank PIN, his laptop password and Harry's phone number without ever having asked for them.

Relief set in when it turned out to be a normal letter, not a puzzle sent by a sociopathic gentleman murderer, not a desperate cry for help directed at the world's only consulting detective. John even read the letter twice and scanned it for hidden messages, wondering whether he would even be able to decipher them if they were there, but it was really just an ordinary letter.

Dear Sherlock, it read, and John frowned at the paper for the conversant tone it dared to use.  
We would like to invite you to the reunion of Cambridge University graduates of 2000.

This will be the tenth anniversary of our graduation year, and we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion.

Whether you have attended past reunions or not, we would very much like to welcome you at the Royal Garden Hotel, 2-24 Kensington High Street  
London W8 4PT on December 12th starting 8pm.

We hope to see you there!

The Reunion Organisers.

John sighed. He didn't have to worry about it, knowing how likely it was Sherlock would attend.  
He remembered Sebastian's words well, calling Sherlock a freak like so many others did, embarrassing him in front of John, and he remembered Sherlock's look of slight discomfort, so fleeting that even John who stood right next to him had almost missed it.

No, there was no way Sherlock would want to attend the reunion.

Sherlock was cold, but he wasn't a sociopath, even when he did have trouble being both subtle and sensible most of the time. The truth had always worked best for him, the truth with all its force and sharp edges, but he had never learned what to make of other people's reaction to the truth. The pettiness with which many of them tried to counter him. Why would he ever want to subject himself to that?

"Will you take the job?" Sherlock asked him when he entered the flat, and once again John's mouth formed the question that came naturally in such a situation, before his brain caught up and sharply reminded him of how completely pointless it was to ask Sherlock the question 'How?'.

John grimaced at him.

"You don't have to do that just to make a point," he mumbled, trudging into the kitchen. The letter was stuffed in the plastic bag with the groceries. He planned to just bin it and never mention it to Sherlock.

"What, the point that I know perfectly well what you are doing without having to come with you?"

With his back turned, John missed the quick grin that grazed Sherlock's features.

"Now and then I like to indulge."

John was not prepared for Sherlock actually getting up to follow him into the kitchen.

"That isn’t just sugar, is it," he noted matter-of-factly and tried to peer into the bag, but John whisked it away from him at incredible speed, then cursed himself inwardly for having been completely bloody obvious.

"John." Sherlock drawled, and John hated the way his eyes gleamed. Sherlock positively loved secrets.

"John, why won't you let me see?"

Sherlock stepped closer, and John could feel the hair at the back of his neck stand up. Something had caught Sherlock's interest, and the predatory way in which he was going after it made John feel odd, even though he really didn't want to press his brain for a detailed definition of odd at that moment.

At the same time John marvelled once again at Sherlock's natural limits of knowledge, the ignorance with which he had looked at the bag just a few minutes ago.  
Groceries weren't interesting. Now they were.  
Sherlock knew the brand of the tube of lube John had tried to hide in his room, though, this and many other small indicators told John that he had entered into the array of Sherlock's most favourite study subjects, so it wasn't the grocery bag that fascinated him, it was the why and how Doctor John Watson had tried to keep a secret from him.

With no clear plan in mind, John tried to dash away with the bag, an enterprise destined to fail when he tripped over a randomly placed stack of books and crashed into the sofa, his shoulder screaming in protest.

Sherlock tackled him and tried to wrestle the bag from him, acting so juvenile that John almost surrendered in his surprise.

"Sherlock, no--- oof--- Sherlock, where are your hands?!" John bellowed, trying to wrestle himself free and swore silently when he heard Mrs. Hudson giggling in the corridor.

But while he might have had the element of surprise, Sherlock was in no way stronger than John, and so he did the only thing that would guarantee him victory with the bag still nestled into the other's lap like that: in a feint at the bag, Sherlock let his fingers brush John's thigh.

John went both limp and hot so quickly that Sherlock considered doing it again (a highly rewarding physical study), but decided against it in favour of grabbing the bag and fishing out the opened letter.

"You read my post!" he exclaimed in mock disdain, unable to keep a certain fondness out of his voice.

"No, Sherlock---" John tried, but he was still far too flustered to make a real attempt at stopping him again.

Sherlock read the letter over once, then strutted into his bedroom and came out with his boots, scarf and coat.

"Go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson and ask her if she is free right now. Oh, and get the cheque from your room," he said.

"What am I supposed to tell her?"

Sherlock smiled that smile of his that told John to beware, told him something he ought to say no to was about to happen. John had never been able to resist that smile because that was what both of them essentially were about. Whilst his inability to resist had also let eyeballs find their way into the microwave, John was not going to spoil his own fun.

"We're going shopping."

**

Mrs. Hudson chattered as if she had never been this excited in her entire life.

"You could have picked no one better, darling, I am going to find the right thing for both of you, I can assure you that. Oh, if only old Wilbur had been more dashing a man! Unfortunately my husband was a man with an everyday face, you must know... I'm sure I could have helped him had he only let me, though. It's a real talent of mine! I keep watching those makeover shows and think to myself 'that could have been you, transforming people, giving them the time of their lives' but alas it wasn't to be, with no one to aid my talent back in the day, and when the war came---"

"So you are actually going to attend?" John asked Sherlock, sitting between him and Mrs. Hudson in a cab that wouldn't have had enough leg room even if Sherlock's limbs had not been long enough for two.

"Yes," Sherlock answered dryly over Mrs. Hudson's never-ending stream of stories, "Thus let me tell you how pointless but amusing your attempt at hiding the letter was."

John bit his lower lip.

"So... you really don't mind? I mean, why bother at all? I know you're not interested."

"This is Sebastian's doing, see?" Sherlock replied and fished the letter out of his coat pocket.  
"The paper and printing are supposed to look expensive, when in reality they are simple replicas made at a printing shop, not a printing shop in London, far too expensive, no, he knows a lot of people, someone probably did him a favour.  
Also, the idea of holding the reunion at the Royal Garden Hotel is right up his street, it's all posh and pretentious, but it's probably not his idea, he might have been there for a business meeting, maybe he gets a special discount by now.  
Holding a reunion of Cambridge alumni in London is ridiculous anyway, the university provides ample space on its own campus. It’s his style, showing off while at the same time not putting in too much effort. The 'we aim to celebrate this grand number in a grand fashion' bit is something that describes this sentiment very well.  
He was never one for being in a committee, organising things, I'm surprised he came this far with his job, seeing how lazy he always was, but one thing is clear... While I couldn't care less about who is earning what and sleeping with who and going on holiday where, he certainly is. The twelfth of December is two days from now. Either the letter got lost on the way which is unlikely or this is a late invitation, people normally get such invitations at least two weeks in advance so they can reschedule work. I assume he didn't originally intend to invite me."

There was a pause. John blinked at him.

"You haven't answered the question."

The cab came to a halt in front of Burberry on New Bond Street.  
Sherlock got out of the cab with John scrambling out behind him, followed by Mrs. Hudson.

"You are not seriously thinking about going in there to buy a suit for this much," He spread his arms wide to signify the amount of money, "Only because Sebastian wants you as an amusing little addition?"

Sherlock turned to him with a smile.

"Of course not. This is where we are going to buy your suit after all."

"Oh, I'm so excited my dears, you have no idea," Mrs. Hudson said and scurried towards the shop in high heels she hadn't worn in at least twenty years.

"Sherlock!" John said, louder this time, but what usually never worked for Lestrade wouldn't work for him, either.

**

Sherlock looked like he belonged in the shop and Mrs. Hudson had the habit of making herself at home wherever she went, but John instantly felt highly uncomfortable. He knew the security guards eyed the state of his clothes as much as the matronly 'shopping assistant' did, but Sherlock's coolly professional demeanour and Mrs. Hudson's enthusiasm quickly smothered that.

"We are looking to dress this gentleman," Mrs. Hudson explained to the lady and gave him a push forward.

The woman, her name tag read 'Mrs. Hansen' immediately focused on John's appearance.  
There was a certain stiffness in her back that came with occupation rather than age, and she recognised John as someone impressed by professionalism and restraint, judging by the man beside him.

"Did you have anything specific in mind?" she asked.

John looked helplessly over to Sherlock, who chose not to react.

"Well, it’s a university reunion," Mrs. Hudson explained, looking as if she was about to roll up her sleeves and get to work, "And Dr. Watson isn’t used to wearing a suit, maybe something with a classic touch?"

They continued to talk about things John neither knew nor cared about. It was the first time since returning from Afghanistan that he felt completely removed from what was happening around him.

Mrs. Hansen showed them suits off the rack, held them against John, talked about lapels and buttons, pockets and trouser fit, while Sherlock stood in a corner and looked at them with a raised eyebrow and didn't get involved at all in the conversation.  
Sherlock was listening, and John realised that while solving crimes did come as a hobby to him, his knowledge about clothing was as close to a normal hobby as Sherlock Holmes would get.

Finally, after what felt like hours (thirty six minutes in reality, not that he checked afterwards) they had decided on three suits for John to try on. Mrs. Hansen guided him to the changing rooms, gently but determinedly ushering him with all her experience of men bullied into buying suits, unwanted.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in comfy white leather armchairs in front of his cubicle, sipping double espressos, when John came out with the first suit on: all black, two pockets, one button, with a white shirt, shawl lapels and no tie.

"What do you think, my dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock, not looking convinced.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just sat there unblinking, and John was glad he had gotten used to that intense stare. Though in this situation it suddenly felt much more intimate than at home.

"Not quite," he said eventually, pressing the tips of his fingers together, his posture reminding John of when Sherlock solved important criminal cases.

He obediently went to try on the second suit, but this time both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were much quicker in dismissing it. Putting on a suit and wearing it the right way, moving in it and having people stare at him was starting to annoy John, confused as he was.

"Why do I have to try on a suit, anyway?" he snapped, "You haven't even asked me if I'm coming."

"I heard one doesn't go to such occasions alone," Sherlock replied calmly, "And I have only you to go with."

No one but John would have noticed the slight shift in Sherlock's facial expression, but it was enough to make his throat tighten. With no further complains he went to try on the third suit.

The last suit was of a dark blue and came with a simple white shirt and unlike the two suits before it wasn't too tight for John to comfortably move in, and when he closed both buttons of the jacket he looked into the cabin mirror before presenting himself to Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and actually liked it.

"This one is supposed to be worn with a tie," Mrs. Hansen said, hurrying off, returning with a box of them.

Mrs. Hudson made an appreciative sound before engulfing herself in the tie selection process.

Once again Sherlock didn't say a thing, but this time his unblinking stare made John feel hot under the collar.  
It was unusual and new, the stare and the feeling that accompanied it. Sherlock always had an agenda, or so he had people believe, including John. Trouble was that John couldn't always figure out if he was being made fun of.

"Yes," was the only thing Sherlock said after his thorough scrutiny. "Yes."

John swallowed dryly.

"Look at this, love," Mrs. Hudson said and held up a canary yellow tie, but John gave her a very decided shake of his head.

"Sherlock," he said, embarrassed enough to turn faintly pink behind his ears, "Won't you pick one?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in genuine surprise, his eyes bright. He was happy.

His approach to selecting a tie was very no-nonsense one: He went to the box, picked a black silk tie and handed it to John.  
John looked at the tie in his hand.

"Oh military men," Sherlock sighed, and began to fuss with John’s collar.

"Sherlock," John protested feebly, but it didn’t stop Sherlock from tying the Windsor knot, breathing across John's forehead as he did so.

"We’ve made our decision," he said to Mrs. Hansen who was in the process of exchanging French apple tart recipes with Mrs. Hudson, and the way his eyes shone and how the small word "we" tumbled off his lips made John think that he would cherish this suit until the day he died, even if he never wore it again.

**

"SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY POUNDS!" John exclaimed once they had left the shop, despite Mrs. Hudson's desperate attempts at shushing him.

"We got a full suit, a shirt and a tie for that," Sherlock said without looking at him, idly tucking his credit card away, "Don't worry, I will try and get a less expensive one for myself next."

"Next?" John screeched, edging on hysterical, "And what do we do once we get home? Heat our flat with the leftover bills?"

"Every man needs a proper suit, love," Mrs. Hudson said and put her hands on his shoulders as they walked up New Bond Street, "Besides, you never know what you might gain from it."

She winked at him, and John could do nothing other than let his shoulders sag in defeat.

It was difficult to calm down when the next shop they walked into turned out to be Armani, where an overly tanned and very excited young man seemed to flail at the prospect of selling his first suit.  
Mrs. Hudson directed him and he almost flew around to follow her instruction.

Where John had been a helpless mannequin, Sherlock seemed to be ready to say no to every option proposed, often without even trying them on, until Mrs. Hudson got uncharacteristically exasperated with him and pushed him towards the changing rooms with a single suit before John had even laid eyes on it.

"I am not wearing this," Sherlock shouted from within the cubicle, "This is ridiculous. Flashy. I refuse to wear it!"

"That’s fine Sherlock, love, let's just have a little look at it first."

Sherlock grimaced and avoided all of their eyes when he emerged, but his head all but left his shoulders when John failed to suppress a gasp.  
As usual the suit fit Sherlock like a second skin. John knew instantly why he didn't like it though; it wasn't black but light brown, almost beige. Sherlock wore a simple white shirt underneath and had closed two of the three buttons.  
The overall impression was less serious, not casual but somehow very refreshing.

Mrs. Hudson started fussing with a fuchsia-coloured tie, and the only reason Sherlock let her was that he was still preoccupied with John, who in turn was still gaping at him.

" S’good" John finally mumbled, "...I guess. Different. Good different. I mean, not that---" He shut his mouth with a near-audible click.  
He thought it hardly mattered if Sherlock didn't want to buy the suit anyway, but to everyone's general surprise he suddenly agreed on buying it, even with the fuchsia tie.

They paid two hundred and sixty pounds since the suit was on special offer, and the word 'offer' seemed to pacify John enough to not throw another tantrum.

"Two more things." Sherlock said as they left the store and hailed a cab.

"What ‘more things’?" John asked, albeit quietly, and Sherlock only pointed towards his shoes in response.

"That and a nice little something."

Shoes were something Sherlock wouldn't let Mrs. Hudson interfere with, and so he ordered to be driven straight to Jermyn Street entering a heavily guarded Crockett and Jones shoe shop. Again they were glared at, and John was beginning to feel slightly tired of the ever-exclusive West End even though he lived in it.

The shoes were bought quickly, with Sherlock turning up his demeaning air a few notches.

"This man," he said to the shop clerk and pointed at John, "Definitely Oxfords, but what do you think? Bedford, Chatham or Radstock?"

"I'm sorry," John said meekly, "What language are you speaking?"

"Bedford," the small man said, his voice the soothing quality of a chainsaw, and the impressed look in his eyes said he probably didn't have many customers who really knew their shoes any more.

"If you would be so kind as to seat yourselves here. I'll get you a pair."

"He didn't ask for my size," John hissed to Sherlock.

"He doesn't need to ask you, he's a professional," Sherlock whispered back.

"He's a shoe-Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said and began to giggle heartily, and for some reason John couldn't help chuckling along.

The shoes were comfortable and beautiful, And seven hundred and fifty pounds.

"You won't get a Christmas present," Sherlock said when John freaked out a second time, gesturing wildly and nearly falling over his own feet once outside.

"Oh come on, as if you were planning on buying me a Christmas present! You are spending several months of rent on proving a point to a London banker, which is just as impossible as making the sky turn green!"

"John," Sherlock said, stepping into his personal space just like he did on the day of Lestrade's drug bust. "Hush."  
John went very quiet.

The last shop they visited was Dunhill.

"The store manager owes me a favour, so we will only borrow our cuff links here. Just let me do the talking," Sherlock said, then asked a female clerk to speak with a Mr. Rhodes.

"Oh, Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock," a man emerging from a well hidden staff entrance stuttered, "H-H-Hello."

He was almost as tall as Sherlock, bald and rather muscular. His nose looked as if it had been broken and snapped back by an amateur more than once, and his fingers were too calloused to belong to someone who had always worked at shops like this.

"Hello Christopher," Sherlock said, "At last you can do me that favour."

"Of c-c-c-course, I-I'd l-love to," Rhodes replied, and John couldn't help frowning at him. Compared to this guy, Molly was a bundle of confidence.

"We would like to borrow some cuff links."

"Oh. Oh!"

Rhodes visibly deflated, but then smiled so radiantly that John wasn't sure he wanted to know what he originally expected to hear.

"Oh, please do follow me!" he said, drew himself up to his full height, stutter now gone, and marched around a glass counter from which he retrieved several pairs of cuff links.

"I know I owe you, Sherlock," Rhodes said, "But please, please don't lose them. Things just smoothed out around me."

"Oh I know," Sherlock replied easily, "I've been watching you, and I daresay I wasn’t the only one."

One of Rhodes' facial muscles twitched.

"John, come here and pick something," Sherlock mumbled, and John stepped closer to have a look.  
He ignored all the cuff links that had funny shapes, gear sticks, steering wheels, sharks and four leaf clovers, He finally picked up a cuff link with subtly glittering black jewels.

"How much is this one?" he asked.

"Two thousand pounds," Rhodes answered, not missing a beat.

John nearly dropped the cuff link.

"It's okay," Rhodes said, "You're with Mr. Holmes, I presume?"

"Yes, I'm his colleague," John replied testily, and glared at Mrs. Hudson so she wouldn't say anything.

"His friends are included in the favour, so go ahead," Rhodes said, but John still declined very adamantly.

In the end he chose a simple enough set; diamond faceted in white gold, while Sherlock went for round pink ones that would match his tie.

"What did you do for him?" John asked when they were finally on their way home, "Or should I ask what you did to him?"

"Rhodes is an ex-gang member. I helped him to get out but he still has connections here and there. He was pretty high up and people in such circumstances tend to stay loyal to one another for a long time... He always thought if I ever asked him for a favour he would have to rekindle those connections, but as you could see he’s scared of that like nothing else."

"Wait. Wait a moment. You made an ex-delinquent the manager of a Dunhill Store in the bloody West End?"

"Extraordinary, isn't he, our Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson remarked.

John began to laugh.

"Oh Sherlock," he hiccupped, "I think this is the best one yet."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion.

"...Thank you?"

"And to think that I have to split the rent with you! You could be bloody anything! What else is there, a Hells Angel working in insurance?"

**

When John crossed Baker Street from the tube station the next morning, returning from a physiotherapy appointment for his shoulder, he heard a loud bang and saw a cloud of green smoke billow out of the living room windows of 221b.

"Not again," he mumbled, as he grit his teeth and increased his pace.

Inside, John found yellow acid eating through their kitchen table and a trail of blood leading to the bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John called and knocked on the bathroom door, but when Sherlock only hissed very loudly in response he wrenched the door open.

Sherlock was bent over the sink, fumbling with something in his right hand while holding his left away in a very strange manner, clearly something wrong with it, and his quiet hissing indicated some quite intense pain.  
The next thing John noticed was a circular flesh wound in the middle of Sherlock's right palm, far too big and bloody to be covered with a single plaster, as Sherlock was attempting.

"What in God's name---"

"Alpha-hydroxyl acid is more potent than I thought it would be," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, wincing.  
There was a short moment in which John felt asking "Alpha-what?!" and the usual "why?" but the situation forbade it.

"Okay," John breathed, feeling his adrenaline rise as he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and steered him from the room.  
"Hospital, now. Is it okay to take a cab or should I call an ambulance?"

"Oh, not the bloody---" Sherlock tried to protest but John was adamant about it.

"If you won't get into the taxi I will call an ambulance to collect you, Sherlock. If you don't want to go to the hospital next time, better not mention any type of acid."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, the special kind of annoyed huff normally reserved for Sergeant Donovan and Anderson, and John suspected he did so because the nearby hospital that wasn't St. Bart's was another place where they weren't particularly fond of a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

"Come on now," he said, "The skin is starting to turn yellow."

**

"The skin discolouration might well be permanent," the doctor said as he dressed the wound, giving it the most disapproving look he could muster.

John sat in a corner of the room with one of the books he remembered using at medical school.  
He was good with all sorts of flesh wounds, violent attacks, bullet wounds, but since it hadn't been a common subject of treatment in Afghanistan, holes started to appear in his knowledge of certain chemicals.

"Really, Sherlock?" he said and cleared his throat the way he always did when he was secretly angry but didn't feel like making a fuss, "Poison?"

"Oh shut up, both of you," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes.  
"Especially you." he nodded his head towards John. "You should know better by now."

"Yes, I guess I should know better than to trust in your sense of self-preservation!" John snapped, and just when Sherlock opened his mouth for another retort the doctor held up his hand.

"This argument belongs at home." After a pause he added: "Please don't make it the bedroom, though, this hand really isn't in a fit state for that yet."

**

"I really can't believe you made us buy thousands of pounds of suits and shoes to look good and then went and ruined your hand!" John moved swiftly on with the argument once they were back at Baker Street.  
"Will you order me around even more now that you've got a dressing? Not to mention that I will be the one checking it every four hours! There's the table, too! On a scale from one to ten, how much do you think Mrs. Hudson is going to like the mess you've made? Oh wait, she is probably going to be glad because you didn't blow up the entire house---"

"I'm sorry I worried you," Sherlock said quietly. Sincerely.

John stopped dead in his tracks.

"What gives you the idea---"

"I really am sorry."

Their eyes met, Sherlock didn't blink and neither did John, who looked away first and sighed loudly, falling in on himself a bit.

"You got me. You got me, you... you even said it twice."

Sherlock smiled, a slow-blooming, genuine smile that John couldn't help mirroring even when he tried his best to remain angry.

"Well then," Sherlock said cheerfully, "Actually I would really love a cup of tea right now."

John nodded without a complaint and went into the kitchen.

"Just this once, darling, I'm not your housekeeper!" he chirped and made Sherlock laugh, and even though it was probably a lie that sound alone justified anything.

**

John had only watched a simple science show on the telly for a couple of minutes when he saw Sherlock visibly tense in anger.  
He liked that type of program, the ones that attempted explanations for human thought processes and urban myths, but of course this would be an entirely different matter for Sherlock.

"So... do you remember much from your time at Uni?" he asked between sips of tea in an attempt to distract Sherlock, "Or did you delete most of it?"

"You may well have observed that my knowledge of chemicals and physics is still intact," Sherlock mumbled off-handedly, unable to tear his eyes from the TV screen.

John snorted.

"Well, after what you did this afternoon I'm not quite so sure. Anyway, you don't forget about people, do you? Even if you would like to pretend they're only uninteresting, oxygen-stealing hindrances to you, you remember them all. You never forgot about Carl Powers."

"Carl Powers' case was interesting," Sherlock answered irritably.

"Then what about Sebastian? You ignore so many requests for help, why did you go and listen to him?"

Sherlock did neither answer nor look at John, but he shifted in his chair in a way that signalled discomfort. Since he very well knew John would be aware of that it was a wholly involuntary gesture, and John allowed himself a tiny smile at how simple, vulnerable and downright human it made him appear.

"Oh, I see," John continued smugly, "You wanted to help him because it was him who asked. Did you want to have a glimpse at what became of him? Come on, you can be honest."

Sherlock's lips formed a very thin line, which in retrospect was probably a harbinger of the outburst that followed, but John, too amused at the time, missed the signs.

"That is not the reason!" he shouted at John, "And if there was really a brain hidden somewhere in that thick skull of yours you would have noticed by now that I couldn't care less about any of the dumb apes attending the event only to brag about the size of their cars or bank accounts, and I declare all of it a completely pointless venture!"

"If that's how you see it..." John got up and went to the bedroom to get his jacket without as much as looking at Sherlock, threw it on and snatched his wallet from the coffee table,

"...Then I don't know why we should bother going at all."

"Where are you going?"

"It's none of your damn business where I'm going."

**

"I'm sorry, I really am."

Sarah looked and sounded as if she was genuinely sorry, too, but it didn't help John in the slightest.

Emptying his cup of coffee in one last rather large gulp, he set the cup down with a clack he hoped wouldn't come across as too angry and focussed on her once more.

"What did I do wrong? If it's about our first date, I am still sorry about that, but you seemed to recover well. Okay, what I said afterwards may not have been very tactful, but... Or is it about me being unemployed? I'm not going to scam you, Sarah. Me and Holmes do manage just fine even if it doesn't look like it. Or---"

"John," she interrupted him hastily, "It really doesn't have anything to do with you."

He looked at her helplessly, and began to play with the hem of his fuzzy khaki sweater.

"See, I know I haven't dated anyone in a long while, but back in the day 'it's got nothing to do with you' was always just another way of saying 'let's please not talk about this anymore'. I can see you're not going to change your mind, but there is something that triggered this and even if I'm not going to like it I deserve to know what it was."

Sarah sighed and ran a hand through her hair warily.

"Quite frankly it's your face."

John gaped at her.

"Pardon?"

Another sigh.

"You came here angry, didn't you? You had an argument with Sherlock and decided to come here. You were making a face when I opened the door."

When John didn't answer, Sarah nodded to herself.

"You are a really nice man, John, you really are, but I am tired of always being on the receiving end of one of your fights. Go home and make up with him, come on."

"If I promise not to come here after a fight, will you give me another chance?" John tried, but he could guess the answer.

"If you do that, I won't get to see you at all."

**

Both windows of 221b were open when John returned home that evening, but no hazardous smoke came billowing out this time. Instead John could hear Sherlock play the violin.  
Sherlock had always played one of John's favourite pieces on the violin as a compensation for any aggravating thing he'd done.  
It had taken John a while to figure it out, but it was Sherlock's most honest way of saying that he was sorry.

"How do you even know I like Holst?" John asked when he entered the flat.

"No one said I was playing for you."

"Yes, no one said that, not even me. Doesn't mean you can't answer the question, though."

"Your laptop," Sherlock said simply, then abruptly stopped playing.  
"Now you've killed the mood."

He turned to look at John.

"I haven't played this piece in a while, you see, and my bowing is still not perfect."

"It will never be if you don't give your hand time to heal first," John said and stepped closer to examine it.  
"Let me check the dressing."

He gently took Sherlock's hand, who quickly withdrew it with a hiss.

"I'll do it myself," he muttered.

"Let a doctor look at it," John said, indicating himself.

"My doctor has trembling hands, he is not to be trusted!" Sherlock shot back. It wasn't a very nice jab, but it did distract John. Sure enough, his left hand was trembling.

He looked at it for a moment, then back at Sherlock and said: "Sarah dumped me."

The trembling stopped.

**

 

"Why would you even need this long? You never need this long in the bathroom."

Sherlock tried to open the bathroom door a fourth time, just to have it slammed in his face yet again.

"Well, do I normally have to dress up for one of your criminal chases?" John shouted on the other side. "Can we please get a key for this door? I am not done, Sherlock. It is your own fault for waiting until the last minute. You will wait until I'm finished and then you may have the bathroom."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.

"Is there anything I can do for you, loves? Is it okay to go there by cab? Maybe you should have leased---" The door opened a fraction.

"Mrs. Hudson!" John shouted and slammed it closed straight away, "I'm in a towel!"

"Don't worry, dear," she said a bit reproachfully, "I do have children, you know. Nothing on you I haven't seen. I dare say that's also true for our Sherlock here."  
She giggled.

John let his head rest against the wooden door and tried to breathe evenly.

"Okay. Okay, okay, I get it."

He came marching out of the bathroom, suit in one hand whilst securing the towel around his waist with the other.

"There, go ahead, all yours!" he shouted, and did not miss the look of surprise on Sherlock's face.

"Are you sure you won't be needing anything? I could give your stuff a final iron over, just a very quick one," Mrs Hudson tried, but John yelled "no!" so loudly that he heard the flat door slam shut only a few moments later.

After putting everything on except for the suit jacket and tie, John began to rummage through a cardboard box of things he had brought to Baker Street with him but had never felt the need to unpack, and inside that box he found a set of shaving facial and shaving creams and an aftershave, a gift box like the ones you could buy at Boots, an old Christmas gift from Harry.

John eyed it for a moment, especially the expiry date, and then looked at the clock. If he had to wait for Sherlock to finish in the bathroom...  
He went back and knocked at the door.

"How far are you, Sherlock? I forgot to shave and I..." he trailed off, suddenly doubtful.

"It's okay," came Sherlock's deep voice from the other side of the door, "you can come in."

When John came in, Sherlock was in his boxers and in the process of towelling his hair dry, his dark curls hanging low in his face and obscuring his eyes.

John swallowed dryly.

"Now that I think about it... I only shaved the other day..."

Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist before he could leave.

"It's okay," he said and rolled his eyes at John. "I have to do your tie, too, haven't I?"

John stole a tiny glimpse at him. For someone who spent most of his time lying on the sofa Sherlock had a well toned body. John wondered where the muscles came from.

"The tie, John." Sherlock said and the other snapped back to reality with a small gasp, then went to get it.

"Last time you went to meet Mycroft Mrs. Hudson tied it for you, didn't she?" Sherlock asked, and John almost believed to have heard a hint of amusement in his voice.  
"We really ought to teach you how to do that."

John inhaled deeply when Sherlock pushed the knot upwards.

"Just one more thing."

Sherlock reached for a plastic tube on the bathroom counter and squeezed something from it into his palm before mussing John's hair with it.

"Sherlock!" John protested, "I was just done! You do remember what you said about men who put product in their hair, right?"

"Not a word," Sherlock answered and gave such a blank expression that everyone but John would instantly have believed him.

John glanced at himself in the foggy mirror. He would never have admitted it to Sherlock, but he actually liked his hair better now. It had grown quite a bit over the past, and mussing it a bit made him appear slightly younger and somehow more relaxed.  
He hung his head. Sherlock Holmes, who didn't know the earth went around the sun, Sherlock Holmes who wouldn't have been able to name a sunflower had he tried, Sherlock Holmes of all people was superior to him in hairstyling matters.

Even though he now knew Sherlock wouldn't mind him using facial cream, John shaved quickly and then used the cream and aftershave in his room.  
Both of them emerged their respective rooms at the same time, met in the middle of the living room and just looked at each other until John remembered what being this fascinated actually said about him.

They had agreed on not taking their coats so they wouldn't have to pay for a cloakroom. John didn't have to borrow a coat and Sherlock went without his trademark, an act that struck John as very unusual especially since once out in the street, every pair of eyes turned to look at them in their really quite eye-catching attire.

The cab arrived and they sat down, but the moment John had settled and closed the door it hit him what kind of situation he was in.  
This was probably the first normal thing he and Sherlock had ever done, aside from eating perfectly normal food in a normal Chinese restaurant not owned or frequented by smugglers.  
This wasn't a cover, there were no murderers to catch, no immediate mortal peril to prevent, there was nothing at all adrenaline-inducing in it for him, and still... when Sherlock called, he came.

Moriarty was right. John was a dog.

It wasn't the right time to talk about this musing, otherwise John might have, but the nagging feeling it left him with wouldn't vanish no matter how hard he tried to distract himself.  
He needed to find a time and a place to define who Sherlock was, and why he was with him at all.  
John had killed a man a few months ago without so much as thinking about it. Back in Afghanistan his morals, the weight of possibilities and guilt that followed each of his actions had made it ever so difficult to pull the trigger.

It never felt quite so pressing to define anything about Sherlock, about them, but John remembered the way his stomach lurched when Sherlock had touched his thigh, knowing quite well what a reaction it would produce, and right at this moment in a cab roaming the unusually dry London streets, John was staring at him again, and their knees were brushing, and he felt alive.

If he hadn't believed the reunion to be Sebastian's doing, by the time they approached the magnificently lit hotel there was no doubt about it; there was an actual, honest-to-goodness red carpet.  
An incredibly dull-looking woman with freckles, copper hair and oversized glasses crossed Sherlock's name off a list in tiny font, which was either to obscure invented names or fit the long guest list onto one sheet of A4.

They had only so much as set foot in the foyer when Sebastian pounced, striding across the hall with an air of purpose - or obnoxiousness.

"Well, well, well, if that isn't the good old Sherlock. So you really did come."

John wasn't one for getting angry on other people's behalf, but it seemed like inviting Sherlock had been more like a bet, or a bad joke, and even though it was Sherlock they were talking about there were certain limits to what was acceptable even if you thought your former course-mate to be a sociopath.

"Oh, and Doctor Watson, never thought I'd see the day!" the banker went on. "All dressed up, so fancy."

John found that he rather sounded like Mycroft all of a sudden, and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at him.

"It's not---" he tried, "You know we're only---"

"Yes, yes, yes." Sebastian interrupted him, ushering him along, and with a sudden spark of clarity John noticed how much he hated being interrupted, and also that was a thing Sherlock never did, even if he called him an idiot afterwards.

Somehow John ended up at the buffet alone while Sebastian was showing Sherlock around like a trophy, introducing him to people he clearly had no interest in, by the way how rigidly he stood in their presence.

There he stood, with a plate in his hand, feeling useless in his fancy suit after mere minutes. He grabbed for weirdly shaped appetizers without so much as looking at them, thinking absent-mindedly that they were vastly different from Mrs. Hudson's 'nibbles' when someone bumped against his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope I didn't spill any champagne on you."

She was petite, with a curly brown mane, slender legs and a blinding smile, John was pretty sure whoever saw her without feeling exactly the way he felt at that moment had to be either blind, dead or... Sherlock.

"Hello," John said and smiled, trying to give his confidence a slight push in the right direction. He was good at flirting, he knew he was.

"Hi," she said and flashed him another smile, "I'm Emma. I don't think I remember you..."

"I didn't study at Cambridge." John replied and pushed his plate away to walk with her, even managing to smoothly hand her a fresh flute of champagne when someone with a tray walked past. She giggled in delight; a wonderful, wonderful sign.

"So you're here with someone?"

Damn.

"A colleague," he said slowly, "In case he gets bored of how terrible and fat everyone has become in the last ten years."

It was a really bad joke to cover for the appallingly weird situation he was in, but Emma laughed none the less, which was astounding. Downright amazing.

"I'm John, by the way."

"Hello, John."

She shook his hand warmly.

"I read history." Emma went on, perhaps purposefully not enquiring after John's colleague. It seemed to go great. "Not sure whether it was worth my time, I don't really remember why I did it, either..."

"So what do you do now?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation going without having to tell too much about himself, seeing as the only interesting things he could talk about, the army and Sherlock, were potentially bad topics for small talk with someone you had just met.

"I work for an auction house, estimating the value of items."

"Wow, that's..."

From the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock looking for him, slowly turning into the right direction. Fearing Sherlock would put a sudden end to his good time, as he had a habit of doing, John began to scramble for words.

"That's really something."

Emma suddenly gasped. John furrowed his brow at her.

"There, that's Sherlock," she whispered, gripping his biceps in excitement.

"God, he looks even better than he did ten years ago... not that we ever saw him much, he was supposedly mostly holed up in the university labs but... I mean, just look at him!"

John suppressed a sigh. Good times were definitely over.

"What a shame," Emma whined, digging her fingernails a bit more into John's arm for emphasis.

"What is?" John asked, even though at that point he was sure he didn't want to know.

"Rumour has it that---"

"John!"

Sherlock had spotted him.

"John, I need a break."

He looked honestly exhausted, John had to give him that.

"Get me some food."

"The food is less than five steps away from you, and I'm not your servant, by the way. Get it yourself."

Neither of them noticed how Emma stood between them and gaped without so much as closing her mouth.

"You're--" she stammered and even pointed a finger at John, "You're John!"

"So I said," John replied, suddenly testy, and by the proud glimmer in Sherlock's eyes he must have pulled off sounding just like him for a moment.

"No, I mean... You're that John, John, you and Sherlock..."

It took all of John's willpower not to swear and shout at both of them right then and there. He just left Emma standing, determined to get back home because if the first quarter of an hour of a party turn out like that it was best to get away with dignity still intact.  
Sherlock was beside him in an instant.

"Did you spread it?" John asked simply, without sparing him so much as a glance.

"Pardon?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe you're conducting some kind of grand-scale research by telling everyone we're a couple, or you're waiting to see if it's possible for my repressed libido to rip me apart, I don't know!" John barked and yes, he did raise his voice a bit, and he even threw his hands up in exasperation even though he'd tried hard not to.

"Even though that sounds as if it might comfort you if I confessed to something I haven't done, I have to disappoint you," Sherlock replied blandly, and John became aware that Sherlock was staring at him with eyes narrowed.

"I believe it was Sebastian who got a bit overexcited at the prospect of me turning up with a friend."

The way he put emphasis on the last word was unsettling when really, it was all fine. If there was perhaps one, just one thing John thought he ought to learn from Sherlock it was probably that people talked because people did little else, and that it was best not to bother with things that weren't worth the time.

If they were nothing but rumours in no way spread or encouraged by Sherlock however, John wondered why a hand belonging to a certain consulting detective appeared at his lower back, gently pushing him forwards when someone called them over to join the conversation.

"Sherlock! Meet my wife," someone called, and they joined a small circle of people.  
The man who had called them was almost as tall as Sherlock. He wore a rumpled shirt under a suit that looked as if he normally wore it to the office, and his stance was relaxed. His hair was short but stylishly cut, probably by an expensive coiffeur, and John thought that his had to be the kind of popular person who had friends because he was actually liked, who had effortlessly climbed the social ladder and could turn up at a reunion party without having to lie about his income and number of children.

John couldn't imagine him ever having been even so much as acquainted with Sherlock.

"John, this is Stephen Walther," Sherlock said, never once moving his hand from its position at John's back even though the other tried his best to glare at him.

"He was one of the students on my course, and is now a well-respected professor of chemistry at Cambridge."

Sherlock sounded like a page out of "How to make successful conversation"-Holmesian style.

"I remember him as always being partial to a drink, attending parties of all sorts and becoming activities officer for the student's union."

Alcoholic. Sherlock's eyes said.

"I'm also delighted to see that his girlfriend from our university days, Penny Highmoore, is now his wife."

Sherlock smiled at them, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, not that it often did.  
John remembered, then, the times he had seen Sherlock's genuine smile.  
He must have shivered without noticing it, because Sherlock's hand pressed against his back ever so slightly, and John found the feeling comforting even though he knew he shouldn't have.

"Pleased to meet you, John," Stephen said and shook his hand, as did Penny and the other people in the circle whose names John forgot as soon as Sherlock had uttered them.

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you, but Sherlock was a terrific student.”

“No,” John said sincerely, “People don't tend to mention the nice things first when they tell me what he used to be like.”

The awkward silence that followed was kind of satisfying.

“Well,” Stephen went on to bridge the gap, his recovery quick and surprisingly smooth, “Naturally all of us are curious what became of him thence... If there was any fairness in the world Sherlock would have become a chemistry professor, he did always love his research after all...”

John looked at Sherlock long enough for him to notice and return the gaze. Suddenly he hated that him and everyone else seemed to talk about Sherlock as if he wasn't present, even though Sherlock was probably used to it. That didn't make it any less impolite.

“Sherlock,” John said softly, but the other man didn't seem inclined to answer the question himself, so John decided to do it for him.

“He is the world's only consulting detective.”

John left it at that, ignoring all the baffled faces and turning his attention back to Sherlock and the way he stared at him. It was the curious sort of look only Sherlock seemed to be able to pull off, part amused and part confused, as if he wasn't quite sure what John had intended with the statement, but approved nevertheless. He did hate explanations after all.

John had always been more clever than him regarding social matters, at least those that did not require manipulating others, and John couldn't remember being criticised for it since their fight about the lives Moriarty had put at stake.  
He liked the idea of them having two different areas of expertise, instead of it being him just trailing alongside Sherlock for the sake of it.

He could almost see the question marks above everyone else's heads and smiled, thinking that this might be the feeling Sherlock often experienced upon realising no one had an idea of what he was talking about.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't meant to be understood by anyone but him, his intricate personality like a secret that was only shared between the two of them, something other people should, just like John once had, take the trouble to slowly unravel.

“So I take it the two of you live together?” one of the women asked.

“We do,” John said, knowing what she, what everyone else had implied by that question and the expectant looks that followed it.  
John didn't particularly feel like indulging anyone, but he thought the more he tried to deny it, the more people would believe in him and Sherlock being a couple anyway. He couldn't win, but he could learn to ignore it instead.

He began to talk at length about living with Sherlock, about the limbs in the fridge and test tubes in the oven, and people laughed at his stories as if they were something extraordinarily hilarious, or maybe because they didn't believe a word he said. It was rather likely thought that their lives made for something hilarious if you were not the person leading it or involved with it in any way.

“I just really hoped he would help in the house a little,” John sighed, and all the women nodded vigorously and tutted enthusiastically.

It was when one of them said “You know, my Geoffrey here's just the same, in fact most men are!” that John realised he had somehow, over the course of one conversation, become the woman in their somewhat imaginary relationship.

“I mean, he can't even cook,” John continued, suddenly enjoying the way Sherlock's eyebrow had started to arch.

“Oh please,” Sherlock finally said, as if he had decided this was as good a moment as any to restore some his dignity, and sighing as if his adamant resolution not to participate in the conversation had just been broken,  
“It's hardly like our kitchen appears in the Michelin Guide for your cooking.”

“Oh, so the food that I make and that you have so willingly eaten every day is in reality not good enough for you?”

More tutting from the sidelines.

In reality John knew full well that Sherlock probably just wouldn't eat anything at all if it wasn't for his cooking, at least nothing apart from buttered toast, but cooking had become a habit of John's, a habit Sherlock knew he wouldn't break.

“You could try cooking for a change.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a gesture clearly indicating that something as mundane as cooking was definitely not on his list of priorities and was in no way considered worth his time.

“You know I'm busy with other things.”

“That's what they always say!” another woman cried and finally, finally John laughed, overwhelmed by the situation he himself had created, and by the utter ridiculousness of it all, and he was rewarded by Sherlock's hand drawing little circles on his back.

“I try to... compensate in other areas,” Sherlock said and shot John a look intense enough to make the other man blush and hate himself for it.

“Excuse me,” John rasped and fled to the outside terrace.

Once outside he breathed in deeply, wondering how much time had already past. His stomach rumbling belatedly reminded him of how he had abandoned his meal earlier, but that alone wasn't a strong enough motivator to make him go back in, at least not just yet.

The night was crystal clear and the view was great.  
If he was completely honest with himself, John did like London a lot. It didn't feel like home to him, no place ever did, but when he came home from Afghanistan, faced with the choice and the ability to go just about anywhere, this magnificent city, diverse and exciting as it was, had drawn him in as it had so many before him.  
It had seemed like the right place to start a new, equally magnificent and exciting life.  
Well, he'd got what he wished for.

Normal people wouldn't enjoy the way he led his life, John knew as much, but then again he probably wouldn't enjoy what those presumably normal people did within the confines of their everyday lives.  
Somehow even John's boring day-to-day life without cases still included spending thousands of pounds, eyeballs and jars and explosions that turned the kitchen table into a pile of ash.

Whatever Sherlock did, John went along with it some way or other, and somehow it had become something he didn't want to part with.  
Maybe that was what defined their relationship, Sherlock set the pace, a pace made for John to follow.  
To outsiders it may not have sounded great, but it was a working concept both of them had over time become comfortable with.

When John eventually went back inside, more than ready for some food, he didn't see Sherlock anywhere in the hall, but, knowing the man's tendencies to hide, didn't think much of it.  
The less John needed to get involved, the better.  
He had just reached for a new plate when a sound startled him enough to almost drop it.

Sherlock was laughing.

It wasn't the quiet, nearly audible laugh he sometimes shared with John, it was a booming, rich sound of happiness.  
It made John look for Sherlock, and he found him in the foyer, that now that most guests had arrived was nearly deserted.

Sherlock was talking animatedly with a woman.  
John knew the difference between Sherlock who was just making pretend and Sherlock who was enjoying himself by now, and with no little surprise he witnessed Sherlock smile and gesture like he had never seen him do before.

She was really short.  
There was probably a greater height difference between her and Sherlock than there was between Sherlock and John, which satisfied him even though she was a woman and sporting a rather impressive set of heels.  
Her dress was just as impressive, black and heavy looking with lots of lace, but without looking as cheap as one might expect.  
Her hair was drawn back in a bun, and her make-up was dark, but not thickly applied.  
She too, looked comfortable in Sherlock's presence. It was eerie.

This woman seemed to be one of a category John didn't know existed, people who liked Sherlock instead of just tolerating him, and if that was really the case he wondered why they had never met before. At that precise moment he wasn’t too sure that he wanted to meet her at all, but she saw him first – their eyes met and she smiled. Now that fleeing back outside was no longer an option, John boldly stepped forward.

“Hello,” she said, her voice as dark as her eyes and as firm as their grip when they shook hands.  
Not “Sherlock has told me so much about you!” or something similarly exasperating, just a smile and a handshake, and she did exude a certain no-nonsense air that helped John see why she and Sherlock might be friends.  
Suddenly John was sure she already knew much more about him than he would have liked her to.

“John, this is Irene.” Sherlock said, but John avoided his eyes, avoided the smile.

“Another chemistry student, I assume?” John asked her, but Irene shook her head.

“English literature,” she replied, her tone amused.

John frowned at her.

“So... How did you meet?”

“Oh, Sherlock changed cafés for lunch so he wouldn't run into anyone he knew, changed them daily, but... he did run into me.”

John's frown didn't disappear.

“You chatted him up?”

She did look a bit embarrassed at that, but more so because she might have felt that was the appropriate look for having been found out, and not because she was actually embarrassed. It reminded John of the thing Sherlock used to do when he wasn't sure what emotional response was required of him in certain situations.  
John realised that the two people looking expectantly at him were probably... rather alike.

“Well, uh... lovely to meet you,” John said, suddenly feeling hot under the collar, and left.

The next hours brought food he didn't enjoy and conversations he didn’t want to have, because they centred mostly around his life rather than Sherlock's. They didn't seem to serve for quite as many good jokes and left him feeling like he had just made a fool of himself, and John began to wait for a cue to be able to go home – something he had expected several hours ago if he was honest with himself.

If this party really meant something to Sherlock (which John doubted highly) and was actually enjoyable for him then John would have been glad. He should have been.  
What he was however, was annoyed and bored enough to consider watching Strictly Come Dancing at home an improvement to his current situation.

“No wonder people believe you’re a couple with the way you look at him.”

John turned his head and came face to face with Irene, who nudged him and handed him a pint of lager he was suddenly very grateful for.

“I didn't want to give you the wrong impression, you know.” she said softly, but kept her eyes on Sherlock just like John did. “I am willing to admit that by now you probably know him better than I do.”

“You really don't have to say that.”

“You know I wouldn't say that just to please you.”

Somehow John did.

“The way you keep looking at him tells me a lot.”

“Then you, just like everyone else, have come to the wrong conclusion.”

“Or you are saying that because you refuse to come to a conclusion at all. Look, I know what you're thinking. I would have dated Sherlock, but all his intelligence and his good looks don't help over the fact that sometimes you have to be prepared to come second, and back then I wasn't.  
If Sherlock is smitten with someone, he will make that very hard to see, and I wanted to be adored.  
You on the other hand, no matter how many things about Sherlock you have learned over time, you seem to be very blind to this. When we were talking he was all 'well John thinks this' and 'John thinks that' to just about anything I voiced my opinion on. Obviously your opinion means a lot to him, at least more than mine. I don't know if the two of you have enough in common for a relationship to work, but you've got a chance.”

John looked at her once more and nodded, not sure whether he was grateful.  
Still the feeling of wanting to go home and think things over had intensified, and thus he went to tell Sherlock he was leaving.

“You don't have to,” Sherlock said, “We have a room booked in this hotel.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock, we live fifteen minutes by cab and you don't like drinking so there was clearly no danger of us getting smashed, so why would you go and book a room?”

Sherlock briefly shifted his eyes away.

“That's because I didn’t. It's on Sebastian.”

John didn't stop a beat.

“Right, that's it, I'm out of here.”

Sherlock however, grabbed him by the wrist.

“Why are you---” he said, but John's patience was wearing thin.

“For you it's just a night in a hotel bed, but for me it is practically everyone in this room goading me into something of a relationship that requires more from me than just putting up with your dirty dishes and your moaning about humankind! It's about everyone telling me what I supposedly want and me starting to believe I actually want it!”

Sherlock raised his brows at him.

“And what would that be?”

The answer just required one word, but it was a word John didn't dare to say.

“You look tired, John,” Sherlock said, took him by the hand and lead him away without another word.

**

“It's the bloody honeymoon suite!” John said when they even so much as stepped out of the lift and onto the corridor their room supposedly lay in.“It's got to be!”

When their search revealed a room with double doors, there was nothing Sherlock could say to suggest John was wrong.

He pushed the key card into the device next to the door, and John pushed it open and marched right in.

“Who would need an entire living room in a hotel?” he said, and from Sherlock's position by the door it sounded as if he was very far away already.

“Want some tea?”

Sherlock closed the door and didn't answer.

“If this is the honeymoon suite you know what that means,” he said slowly, following the sound of John rummaging for the kettle that was a standard to nearly every hotel room.

“Does it help if I get worked up over it?”

“It certainly hasn't kept you before.”

John stopped going through the various cupboards in search of the kettle, straightened and sighed.

“I'm tired, Sherlock. Not really in the mood for arguing anymore.”

“What did you to talk to Irene about?”

John would have denied it, but that had never worked before, telling Sherlock to mind his own business hadn't either, so he just tried to be vague.

“You.”

Sherlock didn't ask further, but he narrowed his eyes at John as if trying to find out the answer he wanted the usual way – without having to ask for it.

“You're disappointed,” he concluded, “But not with me, it's with yourself.”

He stepped closer.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I don't want to.”

“John.”

Sherlock took another big step towards the doctor, right into his personal space, face to face, and John couldn't help dropping his gaze to his shoes.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and his breath was warm on the other man's face, “John, I have come to a few very interesting conclusions this evening.”

“Is that so,” John rasped, still not looking up.

“You compliment my appearance by staring at me, you get aroused by me doing your tie, you do not mind me seeing you naked, at least not from the waist upwards. You willingly play the part of my lover, and allow me to touch you in ways that do not seem to serve a higher purpose. You are wary of my female acquaintances, at least that one, and you like to keep an eye on me. To what conclusion do you think I came?”

John swallowed dryly, mustering up the last remains of both his courage and pride.

“So does that mean we have spent a lot of money just so you could put me to the test when you could've just---”

Sherlock's long and slender fingers touched the base of his throat and all words died on his lips.

“I will conduct one final experiment, if you would like me to call it that.”

The fingers ghosted over John's cheekbones before Sherlock's hand finally came to rest on his neck. He spread his fingers over the nape, making John shiver visibly.

“Something you think you might actually want, was it?” Sherlock said softly, his voice as thick and heavy as honey.

He placed the first kiss on the corner of John's mouth, just a quick press of lips to skin, something delicately promising. He hummed in approval when John closed his eyes.  
The second kiss was little more than a dry peck, a quick promise of more, and John already leaned into the touch, turning the third kiss into a longer, less chaste one.

“We have to talk about this.” John gasped between kisses four and five, but Sherlock just said “Oh do we now?” and bit his bottom lip.  
John's mouth opened in a gasp, an opportunity Sherlock used to slide his tongue into John's mouth, deepening the kiss, a strange experience for both of them, with the need to taste more and touch more slowly intensifying, settling low in their stomachs.

John broke the kiss, his eyes wide.

“We really need to talk.”

“About what?” Sherlock asked, and John was taken aback by the faint tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Things like why me, since when, how, and what are you actually intending to happen?”

“You are going to find out if we keep this up,” Sherlock breathed, and such kind of desperation was so unlike him that John instinctively grabbed him by the shoulder and brought some distance between them.

“I just don't know if this is what people say it is.”

There they stood, like strangers in their expensive suits, and John realised that compared to what he was doing right at this moment, trying to untangle all the things the had done for Sherlock instinctively, putting them in order, he thought that compared to this, catching murderers was really just a game, nothing but child's play.

“You're not even the relationship type,” he said. “This could be Sebastian's very elaborate joke, payback for all the years you ruined his sex life.”

“It would have been a joke had you rejected my advances, I believe. Then again it's something I wouldn't have fallen for because you may have noticed I'm rather good at reading people.”

Sherlock's quick smile made John blush.

“Then what am I thinking?”

“That I'm a risk. You on the other hand, have always loved risks. John...”

Sherlock stepped closer gain, but he was scrutinising the other man now, taking his time.

“Why are you so intent on naming things?”

Because it was scary, John thought, and it must have been scary for Sherlock, too, when he realised that there is no logic in simply wanting something, that it was a fact that sometimes the outcome was not predictable.  
Just then however, he was willing to take a risk.

“You know what the doctor said about your hand,” he whispered, but Sherlock just waved it dismissively before unwrapping the gauze.

They were kissing again, languidly this time, and John was trying to find anything to hold onto that wasn't Sherlock just yet, running his hands up and down the heavy fabric of the suit instead until Sherlock huffed and stilled his hands.

 

They stumbled through the rooms, limbs knocking into door frames and ankles into furniture, and when they found the bed Sherlock just had to give John a small push to make him fall heavily.  
Sherlock was now leaning over him, kissing his exposed throat, and John pushed at the other's jacket, the skin underneath Sherlock's shirt surprisingly hot to the touch.  
Sherlock shook his jacket off and began to unbutton John's shirt, leaving a trail of kisses on his now exposed chest.  
John fisted a hand in Sherlock's hair to pull his head upwards, and met his lips in a messy kiss that left both of them breathless.  
He then rose from the mattress just long enough to slide out of his jacket and shirt and after a moment of hesitation where his breathing slowed and his eyes met Sherlock's, he began to fumble with his trousers.

Sherlock stood and all but stumbled out of his clothing, a movement so graceless it made John laugh.  
Suddenly there they were, tangled up in each other, John's arms around Sherlock's back, Sherlock's hands framing his face, and the brush of their erections through their boxers made Sherlock hiss so loudly that John would have been surprised had he not been occupied with suppressing a similar noise himself.

Sherlock began to move at a steady rhythm and John's legs went numb with Sherlock's surprising weight and the sharp press of bony thighs, so he just decided to turn them and straddle Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock had gasped in surprise, his hair now splayed over the pillows, his eyes wide and so blue, or were they grey? John couldn't tell, but he knew he wanted to kiss those lips again, to share his breath with the man who had completely reduced him to his instincts.

They built up a rhythm, hips moving against each other slowly, both of them determined to savour this moment, the present that would lead to such an uncertain future.  
Finally John had enough courage to remove his boxers and so did Sherlock, and the sensation of flesh on flesh, their bodies now touching in their entirety, was almost unbearable.

John watched Sherlock through the haze of his pleasure, trying to commit the flutter of his eyelashes to memory, the way he seemed to be overwhelmed by his own high, once in his life without the control that was so important to him.

John came first, his whole body seizing up, his muscles stretching taunt, spilling onto Sherlock's body, and while he helped the other man follow him over the edge, their kisses grew careless with the exhaustion that slowly settled in.

He didn't want to think about it then, how he really wanted the feeling deep within him to grow into something more, into the word he was still afraid of. He didn't need to name it now.

**

“I would be very happy if you remembered to put the milk back into the fridge just once in a while,” John said and opened the fridge door, sighing.  
Sherlock appeared behind and pressed a small kiss to his neck.

“I try to compensate in other areas,” he said, his smile audible.

“The more my frustration grows, the harder you will have to try to compensate it,” John shot back, but Sherlock just laughed soundlessly.

“I think that can be arranged.”


End file.
